


Southern Summer Rain

by ShinSolo



Category: 30 Seconds to Mars
Genre: Gen, Growing up in the South, Imagery, Very Mild Incest, Watch the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinSolo/pseuds/ShinSolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One day, I’m gonna take ya with me to the real south.  Where the rain falls as slow as them people talk and the drops are big enough to drown a grown toad.  Down there, people know how to appreciate the rain, boy.  They know jus’ ‘ow importan’ it is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Southern Summer Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [<授权翻译> Southern Summer Rain by ShinSolo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1816837) by [sunshinedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinedark/pseuds/sunshinedark)



> This was written in response to an assignment given out by my creative writing teacher. "Using imagery, bring your favorite aspect of the south to life."

When I was a child, our grandfather used to sit on his front porch and rock back and forth. The soft creaking of the rocking chair was as constant as his heartbeat, and the southern summer heat rolled around him thicker than molasses. He had grown up in the bayous of Southern Louisiana, and even though he had lived with my mother in Bossier City since before I was born, he still could not call the city his home. He found the street lights too bright, the air too dry, and the raindrops too small.

“Come here, Jared,” he had said one evening.

We had been on safari in our mother’s rosebushes, watching him with held breath, waiting on him to drift off so we could sneak inside unnoticed. He always woke up the moment the door closed or the heat warped wood of the porch squeaked, and the unlucky one left outside with him would be stuck, a deer in the headlights, with no choice but to listen to him tell the same stories he always told. It was a game that you and I had often played; although, you – being the oldest – almost always won. That afternoon had been no exception.

“Come here, Jared,” he said as he pulled me into his lap. “Watch the rain with me.”

Thunderstorms scared me and Spring and Fall showers made me sick, but the summer rain was different. The raindrops were always slow to fall. It was almost like they were scared to leap from their safe haven among the clouds; and if you listened, you could hear them as they landed in the dusty yard, each one large enough on its own to quench your thirst.

“Watch the rain, Jared,” he repeated, his voice worn and raspy. “One day, I’m gonna take ya with me to the real south. Where the rain falls as slow as them people talk and the drops are big enough to drown a grown toad. Down there, people know how to appreciate the rain, boy. They know jus’ ‘ow importan’ it is.”

He smelled of musk and chewing tobacco. And although I knew better than to say so, I was only half listening to him. I could see you through your bedroom window, your hair still wet from being outside. You had your hand pressed against the glass, as if silently expressing your sympathy for me.

I loved how even though you had already turned eight, and I was still only six, you never considered me anything besides you equal. Our parents had just entered the war that would eventually drive them apart forever, and you had taken it as your responsibility to make sure that I was always smiling. You kept me oblivious to the pain that you must have felt when night after night, their screams could be heard through the floor boards of our shared bedroom. You told me, that one day, we would both be somebody, and everyone would know our names.

“One day, I know ya gonna grow up and leave ‘his behind ‘ere, but don’t ya ever forget the rain,” our grandfather said as he set me back on my feet. “I know it don’t seem like much to ya, but one day it’ll bring tears to ya eyes.”

He grew quiet and his eyes were blank, starring out into the rain. I knew my time with him was over for the night. He had already forgotten that I was there.

When I got back inside, you were waiting on me. You laughed and asked me if Gramps had had anything interesting to say, and I had just smiled and shook my head. His words had been the last thing on my mind.

Gramps had fallen sick the next day, and had passed away by the end of June. The doctors said it was from sitting outside in the rain, but everyone found that to hard to believe. The summer rain had always been so warm.

We buried him in the old mausoleum behind the, now deserted, plantation house he had grown up in and adored.

It has been twenty-eight years since he died, and now I find myself laying next to you in the grass of the cemetery. The summer rain falls around us, but neither of us mind. Our grandfather’s words come back to me one at a time, and I recite them to you with more fever than I have ever had for my lines.

You merely watch me, your brown eyes locked with my cerulean ones. The rain has now slowed to a mist, but the water drops that occasionally fall from the tree branches overhead are still large enough to bring back memories, to make you seem like the same child who had always tried so hard to keep me laughing.

I smile and take your hand in mind. Your skin is wet and the summer heat has caused you to remove your shirt. Tiny beads of water have gathered on your eyelashes.

Tears well up in my eyes as I study you. You are the only one who ever keeps their promises to me. You are the only person who has stayed by my side no matter what.

“He was right,” I say, turning my head so that I can see the mausoleum.

“About?” you ask, momentarily tightening your grip on my hand.

“About the rain,” I whisper barely loud enough for you to hear. “I never really thought about it before, but the farther south you go, the larger the raindrops. They make me sad, but whatever I do, I can’t forget them. I understand him now. Whenever it rains at home, I can’t help but watch it like he did. It always makes me wish that it was warmer and . . . that I were here.”

You sit up and shake the water from your hair, but you do not comment on what I had said. Gramps had always confused you and I find myself wondering if you should have let me win our game more often. That way, you would have spent more time on the porch listening to Gramps’ stories.

The sun is already low against the horizon. And as blue sky fades into twilight around us, you take my hand and pull me to my feet. It is time for us to leave the old plantation farm that we only think about on this same day each year.

I give my last regards to our grandfather’s grave and then allow you to usher me to the car. Our driver is fast asleep in his seat when we get there, but it does not take much to wake him. For a moment, the sun emerges from beneath its veil of clouds, creating one of the most beautiful fox weddings I have ever seen. And as the farm fades away in the distance, I turn to you and smile. 

“Till next year?” I ask.

You nod and wrap your arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer to you. My head rests against your bare, wet chest.

“Yes, Jared. Till next year.”

**Author's Note:**

> Written 11/14/2006.


End file.
